Metro 80

Writing this Metro column has given me a
level of fame that I could never have dreamed of before. A waitress in a Thai
restaurant in Edinburgh became slightly flummoxed when she was serving me
because she had recognised me from my by-line photo. I didn’t get any money off
or a free prawn cracker, but it was still nice.

Then just this week I was invited to the
grand VIP re-opening of Garfunkel’s in Bath. That’s right, look impressed. If I
was prepared to shell out for the train fare and hotel room I could have had a
free three-course meal in one of the most disappointing chain restaurants I
have ever been to. I took a date to the Leicester Square branch in 2004, before
going to see the Starsky and Hutch movie. I think it might be the least
impressive night out in the history of seduction. If only we had made love she
would have had the perfect triple-bill of failure. But for some reason we
didn’t get that far.

Even the PR woman who invited me to the VIP
night knew it was a tough sell saying, “If you haven’t paid Garfunkel’s a visit for while you are in for a
surprise.” Though to be honest if they were serving food that looked fit for
human consumption that would be enough of a shock for me.

I also once got some free Mr Kipling cakes
after mentioning them in a column. And a woman from Ferrero Rocher said she
might send some free chocolates (but never did). Maybe I should set my sights
higher. I really like the new Aston Martin DB9.

Yup, my life has become a whirlwind after
just 18 months of writing these columns. How do I keep my feet on the ground?

I seem to live in a strange hinterland
outside the citadel of celebrity. I am like some beast-like chimera, hiding in
a bush, eating grubs, blinded by the celestial lights in the near distance.
Occasionally the door opens slightly and they leave out a dish of milk or a plate
of crumbs that have fallen from the plate of one of the proper celebs, like
Science from Big Brother. But I am not welcome inside.

I don’t mind. Just as Groucho Marx would
not want to belong to a club that would have him as a member, I would not want
to attend a celebrity event that would have me as a guest.

A few years back I got an email at 6.30pm
inviting me to a media launch that started at 8 o clock that evening. I think
when you get 90 minutes notice to a party you can only conclude that you
weren’t very high on their guest list. It’s about as insulting a party invite
as you can get. “Hi we’re short of guests and found your name in a 1990s Radio
Times. We assume you’re available. It’s not like you’re working.”

To add insult to injury they informed me of
some of the people who’d be there (clearly invited in advance) including
Peaches Geldof, L’il Chris and Patrick Neate (he won the Whitbread Prize in 2001).
This is how deep they had gone before thinking of me.

There was even a list of celebrities who might be attending which included H from
Steps. I decided I didn’t want to be at a party that even H from Steps was
having second thoughts about going to.

I stayed home and ate a whole tub of Phish
Food ice cream to myself instead. Mmmmm, delicious, Phish Food.